Screwed
26 Apr 2017Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
I jerk awake, my heart pounding. I'm nude, and my skin is touching someone else's.
I look to my side. There's an equally nude strange man, handsome and snoring softly. Next to him on the sheets is a half-smoked onionhead joint. Next to it is a half-drank bottle of Sothis Select. In a rush, the previous night's debauchery catches up to me.
Oh yeah.
I look around, my eyes still blurry. I'm not on the Cool Under Pressure, and it feels like normal grav. That means a planet.
Halper's Hope. That's right.
Even remote outposts need their share of legally-challenged diversions. And it turns out that even remote outposts have the occasional bed-able fellow pilot passing through the same time I am. Two ships in the night, so to speak.
So what's a girl supposed to do? Not take advantage of good-looking dick when it falls into her lap?
I silently get to my feet, reaching for my clothes still scattered around the deck. It's still early, and the man next to me solidly passed out. I take a moment to scribble a brief note for him. But what?
"See you around, flyboy."
It's a lie, but a benevolent one. I'll never see the man again, and we both know it. Still, there's a certain protocol to these things. And he'd been a decent lay.
I gingerly let myself out of his old-school Cobra- gods, I missed mine sometimes. Thankfully, the entry ramp was still extended so I wouldn't make a cacophony of noise as I was exiting. My ship is parked only a few bays away from his- on Halper's Hope, everything is only a few bays away. But I need a shower and a few more hours of sleep.
And then a cup of coffee. I'm not even hungover. I'm still legitimately onion-drunk.
Inside the Cool Under Pressure, I collapse onto my bunk, still sleepy. Coffee could wait. The shower could wait.
By now, the auto-loaders are long done with unloading my cargo. I lazily punch a few buttons on my wrist computer, bringing up my credit balance. I'd delivered tons of station rations- or at least, that was what the cargo manifest had said. In reality, I'd just delivered enough rush to sustain a little outpost like this for a long, long time. Supply was limited, so prices were excellent. Everything had been handled through the automated system, which was unusual but convenient for a station administrator eager to avoid being seen with a low-down smuggler.
So when it turned out that I'd sold my supply at a loss, all traces of drunken sleepiness evaporated.
How the fu-
Somehow, the agreed-upon price of rush had plummeted. I'd sold my supply at the market rate for "foodstuffs", which had been manipulated to be sky-high for that day and that day only. But suddenly, the commodity market showed not only my contribution, but that of another shipment, as well. Supply had gone up. Prices had gone down. There was nothing to be done. I couldn't even march into someone's office and demand the rest of my credits, because I had no idea who to even ask for.
Son of a bitch.
It was the other pilot. The one I'd just bedded. It had to have been. His was the only other ship the entire time we'd been here.
I sit up, my heart pounding and my fists clenched. I have enough credits for gas and ship maintenance, but only just. A major system going haywire or a bum market could really fuck me over.
How did this happen? Was that other pilot in on it, or was some crafty station administrator just out to score some cheap blow?
No, the other pilot couldn't have been in on the deal. At least, he probably wasn't. He'd had such honest eyes.
But they always do, don't they?
My leftover high ruined, I ruefully change into a flightsuit and plop down into the pilot's seat. If I wasn't getting any sleep, I might as well get the hell out of Dodge.
The whine of the Pressure's thrusters fills the canopy with noise as I slowly lift off of the pad. I would need to find a decent market, and soon. I feel a scowl harden my face as I again check my credit balance.
Way to go, Kyndi Jane. You just had to set out to get screwed on this job, didn't you?
Normal space trembles and distorts outside the Pressure's canopy as its frameshift counts down to zero. The vessel shakes slightly, the kaleidoscope of witchspace engulfing the canopy around me.
And boy did you get it.
