Fine, I'll do This: Pilot's Log #1
08 Sep 2015Michael Wolfe
Commander’s LogM. Lehman
September 7th, 3301
I’ve never kept a log before, but the psyche officer says that it’s “strongly encouraged” for members to do so. Anything that helps me pass the annual exam to keep my good standing with the Pilot’s Fed, I guess.
Don't see much use in logging, anyway. I know who I am. I know what I fly, and what I’ve done, so why write it down?
According to this lady- sorry, doctor- keeping a journal of my life helps me cope with the things that I see and do during my piloting exploits.
I wanted to tell her that the best coping tool in the ‘verse is the sound of credits hitting my account. Failing that, a ‘72 vintage from the bar’s top shelf does the trick just fine, too. Add in a halfway decent dock-knocker, and that’s a worthwhile port visit if there ever was one.
I still prefer getting paid over the other two, though.
Of course, extolling the virtues of money, booze, and loose women to the doctor’s face ain’t exactly the fast-track to passing your psyche eval, so I just nodded and said “yes ma’am”. There's quite a story to tell to explain how I got be where I am, and if the doc wants details, then it's going to take awhile to get caught up. I won't be done at the end of this entry. Hell, I might not be done at the end of ten entries.
So, about me.
I bet you’re expecting some kind of sob story about a jaded man with a dark, tragic past. After all, how else could a person live with killing and smuggling to pay for his next drink?
Sorry to disappoint.
Grew up in Imperial space, on a remote world. Nothing I would call a backwater, but not exactly Achenar, either. Which one? None of your damn business.
Pretty normal childhood, really.
Mom was an accountant for a shipping firm, one of the old-fashioned kinds that used people instead of business A.I.
Dad taught sector history at a local university. Again, it was a pretty old-school setup, if you'll pardon the expression; the place used honest-to-God holo-classrooms instead of those neural shunts that the core systems have had in place for a century.
No complaints about mom and pop. They’re good people, I love them, and I wire as much scratch as I can spare to help them out.
Of course, as far as they’re concerned, I’m also just a truck driver. The only time I send them pictures is when I’m in my Type-7… and I ain’t seen the inside of that hunk of junk for over a year. The station that’s storing it has made a small fortune in hanger fees from me. No need to divulge the real source of my income, now is there?
So how did I go from just another nobody to the upstanding gun-for-hire that I am today? Well, it was mainly due to my time in the Imperial Navy.
Oh, I bet this is where you’re expecting a string of war stories about me as a combat pilot, culminating in some dramatic bullshit tale about why I left the service to go independent?
Nope. Dock Technician, 3rd class. Cargo specialist. For six years I did my time, kept my head down, and got the hell out with an honorable discharge. My reasons for joining the navy were the same as a lot of young men: to leave their boring upbringing behind, and see the galaxy!
Well, it turns out I traded one mundane life for another. In the six years I spent in uniform, I worked on 5 deep-space supply stations, each more spartan and remote than the one before it.
It wasn’t just navy that came and went- I saw and met my share of independent traders, mercs, and bounty hunters, too.
Over time, I came to really envy the men and women coming and going, actually seeing the galaxy, instead of the same view from the mail slot day in and day out.
OK, I might have fibbed a bit when I said that I got to know the pilots. What I meant by that was that I would try to sit as close to them at the station bar as I could; if a group of them were huddled together at a booth, it was all the inside scoop I was ever going to get on what life as an indy pilot was really like.
I would strain to overhear their stories- close calls, good profits, jobs gone sour. Often, they would swap news on how mutual acquaintances were doing, and occasionally raised their glasses to deceased friends. I heard a few pilots boast that they had been alone in the black for months, living out of their starships and scanning new worlds. Sometimes, I would hear about a star or planet being named after one of them- along with a hefty bonus from the Pilot’s Federation.
It didn’t take long before I knew what I wanted when I got out: to take the first transport to LHS-3447, and join up with the Pilot’s Federation.
Of course, it’s not like you just stroll into the office and they give you a ship like people think- you have to have jump though several hoops before they even agree to consider you.
And money. You have to have money.
Yeah, everyone who's seen the holovision ads knows that every Pilot's Fed newbie gets a "free" Sidewinder. What those commercials don't mention is that the training, implants, insurance, and membership cost a hefty amount. It's simple enough to be an indy pilot- it's just really hard to become one, or else there would be even more dumb bastards flying around with dreams of riches and glory.
Fortunately, 6 years of being stranded on space stations with not a lot to buy makes for one hell of a payday when you’re discharged. I had more than enough to get into the pilot’s training, and even a docking simulator seemed like a thrill ride after baby-sitting cargo containers for 6 years.
Six-months later, I flew my parents to the graduation ceremony on 3447. It was the first time that they had ever been outside their home system. I took them on a system tour in my new (to me) Sidewinder, and after a week of sight-seeing and re-uniting, I bid them farewell at Dalton Gateway.
After that, I was on my own.
My new home? The bunk of my ship, still smelling vaguely like its last owner no matter how many times I chemed it. When I asked the Fed rep about it, he told me not to worry, the ship had been owned by a beautiful women. Yeah, sure it was. And I qualified for "dangerous" right out of flight school.
Still, it was my ship.
I was a new-jack Pilot’s Federation Commander. I had the badge, the Sidewinder, and the enthusiasm.
It was time to go to work.
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