Last Call
26 Jan 2017Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
Ah, Panem. Back to the source.
I love it here.
I love the food, the people, the culture, and the scenery. The hospitality is amazing, and the-
Okay, not really. I love the fact that it's an entire planet with an Onionhead- based economy. The shit is criminally cheap here.
When a girl like me gets bored, this is where she heads. Not Harvestport, but the actual planetside warehouses. The local yokel farmers always want something. Sometimes, all they want are boring ol' crop harvester parts. For others, a hold of Kongga Ale does the trick. Either way, there's so damn much of the herb in this place that a little off-the-books quid pro quo flies beautifully under the radar. It's just a matter of making the right connections.
And if some crusty old farmer doesn't want to deal, a tumble with one of his sons usually opens the doors just fine, too. It doesn't make any difference to me who greenlights the load. And some of those farmer's sons are pretty cute...
And then? Then it's off to see the 'verse, distribute the goods, and pocket the profits. It's sick, really. If it weren't for the teency-weency detail of o-head being strictly controlled in most systems, I bet that-
What? What do you mean, "turn on local Gal-Net"? Yeah, fine- just keep those auto-loaders moving. That herb won't stuff itself into my hold.
It's always something with these locals. For people who grow o-head for a living, they're awfully jumpy. But whatever. It's not like I have anything else do to anyway.
Oh.
Shit.
Son of a-
Yes, I said now! Get those loaders out of my ass! I'm taking off. No one shows up with that kind of muscle unless they mean business.
Jesus. Look at all that smoke in the distance. Goddamn Feds are torching the place. You want some advice, Jethro? Take your family and get 'em wherever the o-head fields aren't.
Now clear the pad. I'm the hell out of here.
God damn it. These Fed pigs are everywhere.
From the canopy of the Coll Under Pressure, I can see the tiny orange dots light up against Panem's green continents. The Feds are using planet-sweeper firebombs, and plenty of 'em, too. The system's authority is either surrendering or getting shot up, and the comm bands are clogged with desperate pleas for help.
I grit my teeth and kill the signal. Not my fight. I just haul the shit, not die on a mountain of it.
The blueish-green skies of Panem darken into the blackness of space. All around me, flashes of weapons fire illuminate the distance. The Federal fleet is bearing down hard. Already, the slim grey lines of those Farraguts are growing larger. It's only a matter of time before they break atmo, incinerating everything that grows and the people who grow it.
Fucking Feds. Kappa Fornacis isn't even a red dot. Who the fuck do they think they are?
The comm chirps. It's a naval patrol, dead ahead and wanting me to throttle down and submit to a scan.
My face hardens. Fat chance, assholes.
I throw the lever forward, twisting the ship to the side and streaking between the two Federal Condors. My scope is damn near clogged from all the contacts on it, but if I can just break mass lock...
There's no way that I can outrun those little fighters, and I for damn sure don't outgun them. I scowl and rig the Cool Under Pressure for silent running. The local comms repeat the order to throttle down and submit. I see a few warning shots fly past the canopy. They know I'm rabbiting, and I don't have much time. I keep an eye on the steadily climbing heat as I boost away, the laser bolts coming nearer. The Feds aren't even interested in a scan at this point- they're just trying their luck with dumb-sighting a fleeing Diamondback.
C'mon, you giant yellow cow. Fly!
The comms chirp a final time. One last order to throttle down, along with a warning. Lethal force has been authorized, huh?
My lips curl into a smile as the mass lock warning disappears.
Fuck you. I stay free.
The first few bolts of laser fire impact against the Under Pressure's rear, but it's too little, too late: space trembles and stretches out before me as the countdown reaches zero. I exhale in relief as my ship in plunged into witchspace, the eerie sounds surrounding the ship even when there should be none. I've managed to escape Panem before the invasion reached full swing, but a lot of poor bastards didn't.
I release the controls and swallow hard. There'd been a lot of talk from that Halsey bitch about some bullshit "war on o-head", but I never thought that it would mean actual war. Kappa Fornacis isn't even a red dot. The Federation just assfucked a sovereign system's space to further its crusade against a feel-good herb. I clench my fists and look helplessly down at my lap.
Feds. Nothing but a gang of corporate bullies.
First thing's first: get the hell out of Fed space. Just about anything worth smoking is either illegal or the property of some corporation, so it's almost certain that o-head just got put on the chopping block, too. Getting caught with it would mean disaster. Knowing the Feds, the purges and the crackdowns were likely already happening. Anyone possessing the herb or even suspected of such would likely get a new job working for a penal corporation, making shitty clothing for free at some sweatshop.
Of course, demand doesn't just disappear overnight like that. The wheels of my mind start to turn...
In fact, the scarcer the shit gets, the more people will pay for it...
I glance behind me, the idea already forming. People in Fed space aren't just going to stop smoking because their favorite recreational herb just got banned. And her I am with half a hold full. If I played my cards right, it could be worth its weight in painite.
It wouldn't be today, and it wouldn't be tomorrow. But a stash the size of the one in the Cool Under Pressure's hold could make a girl rich. All I needed was a little time.
Time, and a safe place.
