The Momma Bird Gets the Worm, Part One
18 Dec 2017Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
I’ve been smoking o-head lately. A lot of it.Okay, that isn’t really news. Or much of a change from the status quo.
What is new is why I’m lighting up. I’ve received news. And I’m not talking about Gal-Net.
I smuggle things, you see. Expensive things. Rare things. Naughty things. Things that members of system Authority get off on confiscating.
Well, I happen to get off on slipping it in. Is that what it’s like to be a man?
But I digress. Lots of what I make goes back into the Cool Under Pressure. What- you think that fuel, parts, and labor become free if you wiggle your ass at the dock tech? Please.
But even my ship doesn’t take suck up every credit I earn. I’ve got to take care of myself, too- food, clothes, onionhead, booze- and if I’m being honest, the first two get put on the backburner more than they should.
So what’s left? Well, profit. Or at least, what would be profit if I didn’t give away every spare credit I made.
Did I say “give away”? No, that isn’t quite accurate. I’m buying something for my money. Something important. Want to know what? Of course you do. Well, here goes:
I’ve been paying explorers to chart the Pegasi Sector. Not planets and stars. Those are easy.
I’m talking about shipwrecks. Specific types and exact coordinates. Not so easy.
It’s been slow going, to say the least. Not many people want to fly around in deep space, hoping for a signal that may or may not be there. It’s tedious. It’s unrewarding. It’s the opposite of the joy and wonder that so many exploration junkies get off on.
See? We’re back to getting off. It’s the onionhead talking, I swear.
But that’s where my spare creds have been going. It hasn’t been cheap, and it hasn’t been productive. But for the poor schlubs who’ve agreed to my terms, it’s easy money. I give them credits, they give me scan data.
Most of the time, they just hand me a disk full of astral white noise. But this isn’t most of the time. For years, I had nothing to show for my investment. Zero. Zilch.
Now, I’ve got three little birdies, perched on my shoulder and ready to whisper into my ear. All three found exactly what I’ve asked them to, and I don’t trust a holofac for something this important. No, this is a sitdown occasion. Three of them. One after the other, all in a row.
So here I am, joint in one hand and drink in the other. This bar is a shithole, but I like ‘em that way. The bartenders don’t ask questions, but they do mix up a mean Crown Jewel. It’s busy in here, and I’ve already shooed away a handful of would-be suitors for the night. Dick and onionhead are my favorite ways to relieve tension, but I’m just not in the mood.
Hard to get aroused when you’re thinking of your parents, after all.